


Balloons Aren't the Only Rubbers at This Party

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think, maybe, that he has a leg up on you on this whole irony thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balloons Aren't the Only Rubbers at This Party

You think, maybe, that he has a leg up on you on this whole irony thing.

You tugged at your blazer when Dave rushed out the door, flash stepping like you'd never seen him flash step before. He had a box wrapped up in unicorn wrapping paper. He'd meticulously applied rhinestones and glitter glue to every eye and star there was on that box, topped it off with a fuschia bow about as big as the box itself. It almost brought a tear to your eye how well your little bro has taken to his exercises in irony. As if some benevolent god sent you the perfect sponge for your teachings.

You climbed in your ironically shitty pickup and didn't say anything for four hours straight. Strictly speaking, neither of you really needed to. If you needed to piss or eat or hop yourselves up on energy drinks and cigarettes (it's not like you exactly approve of a fifteen year old smoking along side you, but you made him smoke until he puked twice and the little fucker still liked it, and you had to admire that kind of tenacity), you just tugged your head towards a gas station and you both understood. It was a part of traveling with your little bro that made you ambivalent about the cost of gas and the utter boredom that consumed you while on the road. 

Dave slid down the passenger's seat, falling asleep two hours out. It didn't matter much to you- your mixes were still blaring from the radio and the conversation with yourself was just about as enlightening as any that you'd had with Dave before. You mulled over what you knew about where you were going.

It was a birthday party for one of Dave's dorky friends. Said dorky friend had a somewhat mysterious father figure known only to your son as Dad (he seemed to refuse the moniker "Mr. Egbert" on principle), and Dad and dorky friend lived in the suburbs in a very Normal neighborhood (the capital N being an unspoken agreement between Dave and yourself as he had described the Egberts). John, Dave's friend, was- according to Dave- geek king extraordinaire, but cool enough to bequeath the Strider seal of approval on. 

This was the only thing you doubted about the entire scenario.

Your doubts became worse and worse the nearer you got to his house. Dave roused as you hit a speed bump, blinking behind his shades at all the houses. They were all identical. Every single one had a white picket fence with a small yard of green grass and a white house plunked onto the same position in every single yard. It made the two of you tense, completely unused to how the "Normal" people lived. 

It was, you decided, a grievous error that Dave had made in trusting this supposed friend. Yet you pressed onward, a mix of sick curiosity and Strider stubbornness driving you forward. The GPS began to beep, announcing your arrival at the coordinates you'd plugged in earlier. Indeed, there seemed to be the sound of music creeping out from the house, laughs and a few hollers rolling along with it. 

You tensed, not used to such...domesticity.

Dave jumped out of your car before you could say anything about it and flash stepped up to the door. It was the voice that got you to follow him.

"Ah! You must be David." It was said in a deep, fatherly bass that compelled you to find it's source. You were, first and foremost, a musician, and the melodical had a tendency to draw you from even the darkest confines of cynicism to its light. Like a shadow, you're behind your little bro, giving the stranger in front of him the once over behind your black sunglasses.

You're almost disappointed that you don't hate what you see.

He filled up the whole doorway, this man (and there was just no denying his manliness in this situation), hand extended to give your little bro an affable hand shake. Dad- or Mr. Egbert, as you decided that you were going to call him at every opportunity you now possessed- stood at six feet and five inches with shoulders that suggested a he had been a football player in his younger years.

An oak pipe rested in one hand as he let Dave pass, but remained to talk with you. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and took a puff, a thick cloud of smoke issuing from his mouth shortly thereafter. It floated up in intricate swirls just in front of you, making you frown slightly. As enchanting as the effect was, this was really no time for pipe envy. 

"Nice place you've got, Egbert." You said, nonchalance well practiced in your voice. Civil sounding to anyone else, it was a half challenge from you. It was your red polo against the starched white arrow collar shirt of Egbert, your sneakers against his oxfords. It was your cap against his fedora, your sunglasses against his blue eyes. He glanced at you contemplatively, his expression half amused, and you thought for a moment that this chump wasn't even worth your time.

"John seems to like it."

You rose your jaw a fraction of an inch. You felt your eyes widen and even though you knew he couldn't see them, you were quick to fix your face back into one of apathy. He had just met your passive aggression and raised you a poor parenting accusation. Beside you, your fingers twitched ever so slightly.

"Dave prefers the city. More to do." _Suffocating your kid in the boonies, old man?_

"John and I manage to keep ourselves entertained." _At least my kid likes to spend time with me._

The subtext to what you'd been saying was so clearly defined, so perfectly aggressive, and neither of you skipped a beat. Neither of you backed down. Your mouth flickered upward and he took another puff of his pipe. His hand extended towards yours and you took it, grip firm and unapologetic.

"You can call me Dad." He told you, beckoning you inside. You just smirk.

"Okay, Egbert."

He looked almost taken aback, but recovered instantly, and you began to feel a growing admiration for him. When he turned to walk you inside, you made no bones about checking him over. He was all broad shoulders and thick arms and long legs, jet black hair and square, freshly shaven jaw line. You were almost disappointed when you entered living room. There were kids running all over the place, screaming at each other. 

Dave was on the couch, squished up against a boy with messy black hair and an overbite (this was, you guessed, John). He was trading insults with a boy on the other side of John, round faced and full of piss and vinegar at whatever Dave was saying to him. You chuckled and followed Egbert on, settling into the dining room. Along the table were no less than five cakes, seven types of cookie, and two pies. You could tell just by looking that they were all homemade, and you almost started to panic when Dad disappeared into the kitchen. You hated sweets, and yet you'd be forfeiting your subtle one-upsmanship if you showed any sort of disagreeable nature.

Your shoulders sagged with relief when he came back holding a bottle of scotch.

He set two glasses down (cut crystal with a harlequin diamond pattern on them. Decorative, but definitively masculine) on the table and lifted the stopper on the decanter (also crystal in the same motif, you noted, and wondered whether or not it had been a gift from someone) and poured the scotch in equal amounts. The amber liquor settled there and you had instinctively put your fingertips on the edges of the glass, holding it just slightly. Egbert sat down across from you and took a tiny sip from his, not even wincing at the first bite of it.

Clearly, this was a man after your own heart.

"Everyone dump their kids on you?" You asked, taking a slow sip from your glass. Egbert seemed amused at your vernacular.

"I'm not quite certain 'dumped' is the right term. John's friends are used to spending the night here. Most live within an hour of our home, you know."

"So they did dump them here."

He chuckled and took another sip of scotch, letting out a tiny sigh.  
"I suppose you could say that."

You smiled again, raising your glass slightly.

"To chumphood?"

He chuckled again, and you couldn't help put enjoy the warm, deep-bass rumbling noise that it illicited from the man in front of you. The glasses clinked together with a tiny ringing noise that confirmed your crystal assumption, but also your assumption of his kindred sense of humor.

"To chumphood, then."

You both took another sip as companionable silence settled over the two of you. It was easy, you learned, to appreciate the sort of sounds of Egbert taking in his pipe or sipping scotch. Even his breathing lent a certain rhythm that you sincerely enjoyed, and you found your eyes lingering over in his direction one too many times as the cacophony in the living room threatened to breech the door to the kitchen and thereby your respective, scotch drinking peace.

When the room had gotten entirely too comfortable for the both of you, it became apparent that someone would have to break the silence. Egbert, being the gentleman that he was, did so.

"John tells me Dave has a sister."

"She lives with her Mom in Montana. I only have custody of Dave."

To your great surprise, Egbert nodded knowingly. 

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, spinning the contents of his tumbler around gently, blue eyes focused on the reflection of light. It never occurred to you that he would be in a similar situation. "'S no big deal..." You muttered, elbows settling down onto the table. It was hard not to feel at complete ease with this man. You pursed your lips, turning them in and out with a heavy sigh.

"I wish-"  
"-You could have done something?"

You nodded silently, eyes coming back to his. It wasn't as if he could really see yours, but you had a feeling that you knew the exact position of them in any case. He smiled at you.

"But you've got Dave."

For a brief second, your lips flicked upwards.

"That I do," You clinked glasses again, "That I do."

From then on, you ended up talking about a lot of things.

You'd never been much of a drinker and then never prone to drunk blathering, but just then you felt you must be experiencing the same effects. There was nothing that you could hide from Dad, and there was nothing about your life that he didn't want to hear. There was, of course, the shared experiences of raising children- apparently Dave had been a lot more of a handful than John, who you came to understood had a sometimes patient, sometimes stubborn streak a mile wide that had enabled him to tolerate Dave's constantly defensive, sarcastic personality and become friends.

You talked about what it was like to watch him grow up, to think that you'd just gotten free of making the rapid transition from child to adult. You talked about needing someone like him and Egbert nodded accordingly- Apparently John had been thrust into his life just as abruptly, if at a later date. 

The competition between you didn't die out. John's a prodigy on the piano, Dave's the best poet in his whole damn school.

You chuckled and sipped and looked up at each other from under your eyelashes in turns, in time. It was exceptionally calming to find someone who spoke the same body language that you did. So much so that, when the kids ran in screaming for cake and pie and cookies you didn't even grit your teeth the way you normally did. 

As you stood there watching Dave hang all over John (though John seemed oblivious to your little bro's desire to merge skin with him), Egbert tapped on your shoulder and held out a piece of cake. You took a bite just because, even though you hate sweets, it was Egbert that offered it to you. 

You began to say something when a piece of pie was upended into your face.

The room of chattering preteens went dead silent, somehow sensing a disturbance in the fabric of the universe. They stared at you with saucer like eyes, all tense muscles and anticipation. The pie slid down onto your shirt and blazer, then fell off your pants with a delicate plop noise that no one really noticed. They were all to busy noticing you.

You just took your index finger and picked a plump, baked cherry that was stuck to your shirtfront off, popping it into your mouth neatly.

"Nice cherry, John. Shame your dates didn't get it."

The scowling one with black hair, the loud one with blue lipstick, and Dave, to a lesser degree, coloured rather visibly. The rest of John's friends broke out into choruses of laughter, facilitating the return to happy chatter, loud arguing, and the enjoyment of cake. You had set your plate down and looked at Egbert.

"Got a towel?"

He smiled. "A whole bathroom full."  
His eyes twinkled under the fluorescent lighting. You smiled back.

"Lead the way."

That's how you find yourself in Egbert's bathroom. It's on the second floor of their house, away from all the screaming children and pie related fiascos.

You lean against the porcelain sink he's got there, scoping out what there is to be scoped. It's white and clean, but not in the hospital-esque, disinfectant kind of way. Everything has a place and a purpose, from his shaving set to the linen holder he's fishing a towel out of. 

"You should probably take off that shirt." He says, not turning to you. You see his hands grip the proper towel with certainty of it's appropriateness for the task at hand. "That stain will set if you don't let me get it out."

You lean back just a little bit further.

"What if I don't feel like taking it off?" You ask him, daring his response. He walks over to you, that odd light still in his eyes. The rough pad of a thumb worn with callous brushes against your cheek. When it pulls away, you see a bit of cherry goop sticking to it, likely residue splash from what started all this. 

"I don't know," He replies, sucking off the small bit of gel from his finger. This only serves to make you lean forward slightly, without even realizing it. "Should I take it off myself? Stains can be very dirty business." His hand strays towards your shirt and you tense. Egbert maneuvers your blazer off your chest, seeming to relish the way it slides down your arms and gathers about your wrists. You don't move your arms up to let it go free, so he brings his hand back to your shirt, thick fingers tracing the back of your collar. 

They find their way to the first button of your polo shirt, resting there.

"Well, Mister Strider?"

There's a sudden release of tension in the material around your chest as the button slides through it's hole with Egbert's practiced movements. Thinking about how much he's had to have done this before does nothing to calm you down, but you look up at him anyways and smile slowly.

"I think that's our only option, Mister Egbert."

The second button comes undone and suddenly his hands are around your arms, pulling you to him with a kind of inevitability that makes you want to kiss him. You do, or maybe he kisses you, but either way you're kissing each other. His lips are warm and dry and maybe taste just a little bit like cherry and sugar and tobacco, firm against your yielding mouth. You've always had soft lips, even if they're not big, and you know from the way his mouth and yours meet again and again that he enjoys the feeling far too much.

You feel the sudden weight of your blazer drop from your body when he pulls you away from the sink completely, but there's no possible way in the universe that you are giving a fuck about that right now. You put your hands to Egbert's shirt and start wriggling the buttons apart, knuckles brushing against his well worked chest. Yet, despite all this, biting down on his lip is the most satisfying part of your move.

He kisses you back in a way that seems possessive and utterly un-desperate, a large hand on your neck, rough touch working the sensitive nerve endings there. The other is moving up your shirt in its own time, the heat and friction against your abdomen making it twitch and tighten beneath its touch in pleasure.

Egbert moves to slide off his shirt, to take off his tie, and it reveals a vast expanse of muscle and healthy skin, peppered with freckles and the appropriate dusting of hair here and there. You lift your own shirt above your head and toss it to the side. You're not as built as he is, but he's not as fast as you are, and you've got your hands to his belt buckle, your lips to his mouth, before he has much time to react. 

He adjusts easily enough into your grip, not minding the change in pace. You come to the realization of how much you fucking want this, how much you're willing to be a needy little bitch, and it does absolutely nothing to stop you from grinding your hips against his, the denim of your jeans meeting the cotton of his slacks. 

The belt buckle comes loose with a metallic clanging noise, and you rip the rest of the belt from the loops of his pants that you're almost worried you may have ripped one in your haste. He doesn't seem to mind that either, bringing you close with a hand on the small of your back like you're some sort of prize dame in a 20's noir flick. You lick his upper lip and he presses his knee against your groin.

You muffle a moan, biting your lower lip, and he takes advantage. His lips are on your neck, sucking, and _god almighty he's good at that_. 

The heavy sensations pause when Egbert pulls back a little. You think, at first, he must be fussing with his remaining clothes, but he's just looking at you through half lidded eyes, blue studying the curve of your neck intently. You're about to say something when he kneels down, but he simply tugs at the laces of your sneakers, sliding off each article, one at a time. When he tugs off the last sock, he kisses your foot, and it's enough to make the growing bulge in your pants all the more unbearable. You're almost to the point of whining when he's undone his own shoes.

But he runs his hand along the inside of your leg as he stands back up, that mischievous look in his eyes glittering away at you as he does it. He presses against your groin, fingers rubbing up and down at a maddening pace. You kiss him hard, all tongues and teeth and a willingness to straight up murder Egbert if he doesn't _get the fuck on with it_.

He responds in turn by kissing you back, dominating you so gently that you didn't see it coming at all. His hand slips into the waistband of your pants and you remove your hands from his hair to undo the zipper and button. You both break apart so you can toss them off, along with your boxers, and he uses the time to pull something from the medicine cabinet behind your head. 

You don't have to look to know it's lube. You hear the tearing of a tiny package and know that that's a condom. You're not sure whether you're impressed by his commitment to safe sex or frustrated that he isn't out of his mind with lust like you are right now. When he gets back to you, you practically tear down his trousers for good measure. He just kicks them off leisurely, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He puts the condom against your mouth and you forgive yourself for flushing just a little. You take it in your teeth and sink down, lips at the head of his cock, knowing what he means by it and shocked in the best way that he wants it. Little by little, you push it over, ignoring the sweet cherry flavour of the condom. It's not hard to do, ignoring the flavour- you feel six or so inches of throbbing heat pulse inside your mouth. 

Egbert twirls a tiny lock of your hair around one of his fingers and thrusts shallowly, making you moan and tear up at the same time. You hardly have the presence of mind to be pissed off at him, you're so far gone.

But he tugs you back upwards gently, walking you back toward the vanity. Your hips press against it and you lean back again. This time, he presses you up onto it and you go willingly, back and head resting against the cool glass of the mirror behind you. You hear the slick _scklish_ of lube being poured onto his fingers, and can't help but press against the first one that presses against your hole. You're tight enough that it feels good at one and loose enough that it doesn't hurt at two, and you're firmly convinced that he could have fucked you with his fingers and left you satisfied.

Instead, he pulls the two apart, stretching you, and you hear the _scklish scklish_ again as he lubes up his own cock. The head presses against you, just where his fingers are holding your entrance apart, and he thrusts just as shallowly as he did in your mouth. Again and again, little by little, he enters you. The sensation is painful and utterly intoxicating, and when he removes one of his hands from supporting your leg to your dick, you moan deep and loud.

It isn't long until you're thrusting back against him, hips coming to meet his cock with every push, urging him deeper and deeper. He rubs against your prostate with ease, massaging it, and it's nearly game over. You nearly don't hang on. Your self control is impeccable, but he thrusts hard and fast, currents of electricity shooting throughout your body. He squeezes just a little too much, hits just a little too well, and you're coming hard, semen dripping onto your stomach and down his hand.

You relish the fact that he doesn't last much longer.

Coming down is probably the hardest part. You both lean against each other, letting the endorphins run wild through your systems. Every time your lips meet, every time he brushes your jaw or sweeps a finger over your nipple, it's suddenly the most amazing feeling you've ever had all over again.

But soon enough you hear John calling for him, and the two of you sigh in tandem.

"Be right there, son!" He calls, voice admirably strong and normal-sounding. He kisses you and cleans himself, putting on his clothes. You watch him get dressed, tugging on your own clothes at a slower pace. Egbert finishes this particular task faster, pulling out anything you might need to get the cherry gel off of your shirt. 

He turns to leave and you grab him by the tie, smashing your lips together. He kisses back, hard and affectionate, and you let him go.

You join him downstairs about twenty minutes later, shirt removed of all pie residue. The kids are all running around again, playing birthday party games so stereotypical that you almost roll your eyes when they all congratulate Dave loudly on being the one to pin the tail on the donkey. You glance through the patio doors and Egbert waves to you to come out.

The door slides silently under your fingertips, and that comfortable silence slips between the two of you again. You finally have the presence of mind to tug out your cigarette pack and slide one out. Egbert sets his pipe in his mouth and strikes a match for you, beckoning you to lean in and light up. You do, and he just smiles at you as you take a drag.

"Some party, huh?" he asks. You smile at him before you both turn your gaze towards the moon.

"Definitely."

**Author's Note:**

> Done for Kinkmeme forever ago: http://homesmut.livejournal.com/9406.html?thread=13851582#t13851582


End file.
